The scent of her perfume, the same one she's worn since I was a boy, hits me first as she pulls me into a hug. "Look at you," she whispers into my shoulder, her voice thick with an emotion I can't name. "All grown up." I hold on a second too long, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, remembering a thousand summer afternoons by her pool, stolen glances over my mother's kitchen table. She looks tired, a new fragility in her smile that wasn't there before. When she lets go, her hand brushes mine, and the world narrows to that single point of contact. I want to tell her I see her, really see her—not just my mother's best friend, not just the lonely woman left behind, but *her*. The words stick in my throat, a secret I've carried for years now heavy with a new, terrifying possibility.